Портрет художника в юности

           Thenhesawhimselfsittingattheoldpiano,strikingchordssoftlyfromitsspeckledkeysandsinging,amidthetalkwhichhadrisenagainintheroom,toherwholeanedbesidethemantelpieceadaintysongoftheElizabethans,asadandsweetlothtodepart,thevictorychantofAgincourt,thehappyairofGreensleeves.Whilehesangandshelistened,orfeignedtolisten,hisheartwasatrestbutwhenthequaintoldsongshadendedandheheardagainthevoicesintheroomherememberedhisownsarcasm:thehousewhereyoungmenarecalledbytheirchristiannamesalittletoosoon.

           Atcertaininstantshereyesseemedabouttotrusthimbuthehadwaitedinvain.Shepassednowdancinglightlyacrosshismemoryasshehadbeenthatnightatthecarnivalball,herwhitedressalittlelifted,awhitespraynoddinginherhair.Shedancedlightlyintheround.Shewasdancingtowardshimand,asshecame,hereyeswerealittleavertedandafaintglowwasonhercheek.Atthepauseinthechainofhandsherhandhadlaininhisaninstant,asoftmerchandise.

           —Youareagreatstrangernow.

           —Yes.Iwasborntobeamonk.

           —Iamafraidyouareaheretic.

           —Areyoumuchafraid?

           Foranswershehaddancedawayfromhimalongthechainofhands,dancinglightlyanddiscreetly,givingherselftonone.Thewhitespraynoddedtoherdancingandwhenshewasinshadowtheglowwasdeeperonhercheek.